


Drabbles

by Pyroriffic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:16:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroriffic/pseuds/Pyroriffic
Summary: A series of HP drabbles written from short prompts.





	1. Werewolf

The one thing he'd learned in his many years was that waiting was an art form. There were those who simply…waited. He, however, didn't wait.

He lingered.

He loomed.

He _threatened._

He didn't even have to try. Perhaps it was the werewolf in him, but Fenrir's ability to be threatening simply by _being_ was something that he enjoyed. He could wait in a room with a sort of silent villainy that throbbed from him like a pulse. He could wait in a crowd, which would disperse around him giving him an unconscious wide berth.

Or, and this was his personal favourite, he could wait alone.

Eyes dark as sloe berries glittered in the single shaft of moonlight that crept from the clouds. Most lycanthropes attacked only at full moon, but his was an inherently vicious nature. Even on a moonless night, Fenrir hunted. Indeed, he preferred it that way: somehow the lycanthrope in him made the hunt too easy. This was something else. This was a carefully crafted thing.

Oh, it was a beautiful thing.

The man had insulted him, had pushed him one step beyond rational thought – which was not difficult where Fenrir was concerned. But he had harboured revenge. He had dreamed, scented, tasted the revenge for days now and tonight, tonight he would snatch the boy. The child.

Lupin would rue the day he had pushed Fenrir Greyback too far.

But not as much as his son.

A bubble of laughter burst from his lips. The thought of taking the boy into his clutches and savouring the child's terror as another would savour a fine wine…

A thin stream of saliva ran from Fenrir's mouth and he shifted his position slightly, his hunger increasing.

He waited.

It was, after all, what he did.


	2. Explode

"Don't care what you say, I'm going to stick to my guns here, Wormtail. The colour is puce. Definitely puce."

"No, I'd say it was more magenta, myself, Padfoot. Most decidedly a more pink shade of red than purple. What d'you reckon, Prongs? Puce or magenta?"

"Are you crazy?" James stretched out luxuriously. "Puce and magenta are SO last season. I'd say it was unashamedly cerise, myself."

"Amaranth," said Remus, without once looking up from the book he was reading. "The shade you're looking for is amaranth."

His words had the usual effect of silencing the other three who glared over at him and his bookish one-upmanship. "What," said Sirius in a calm, level tone, "the hell is 'amaranth' when it's at home?"

"Any plant," said Remus, pointing to the page in his Herbology text book, "from the genus _Amaranthus_. It's the shade you're looking for. If you actually concentrated on doing your homework instead of basking in the light of your many and varied successes in making Slughorn explode in temper, you'd be able to see for yourself."

As a group, the other three crammed around Remus' text book.

"Well, bugger me, the swotty little git's right," remarked Sirius, artlessly. "He really _did_ go that shade. Here, Prongs! Chuck me over my text book, will you? I want to find other colours we could make him go…"

Within a few short moments, the other three were studiously flicking through their homework texts, bringing the faintest glimmer of a smile to Remus' face. That should actually get them to do some proper revision for their Herbology OWLs due next week if nothing else. He considered it a small success.

And besides.

It had been very definitely eggplant in hue.


	3. Gift

"More tea?"

"No thanks." Argus Filch held up his hand to stop her pouring another cup. Aunt Harriet was a dear old thing, but she did tend to force tea (and cakes) down you. It was _scary_ tea, too: the sort that doubled as paint stripper. Every sip he took, another layer of skin peeled away from his intestinal tract.

"Are you sure, now? It's no bother."

"No, really. I'll have to leave soon."

'Aunt' Harriet wasn't related to Argus at all. She was the elderly maiden aunt of one of his mother's friends: as batty as a hamster on a pogo stick. Because Argus was the only non-magical member of the family, it was decided that he was the only one who could deal with her Muggle ramblings.

He liked visiting the old lady. She was nice to him - something that most his family weren't. And invariably she gave him a gift whenever he left. Usually something random like a toothpick or, on one memorable occasion a paving slab, but it was the thought that counted.

"You're a good boy, Argus," she said as he stood. "Here, I have a little gift for you." Into his waiting arms, she dumped a little bundle of fur. The kitten mewed slightly and stared up at him through one baleful eye.

"I can't…"

"You can," she said. "You must. Old Mrs Norris gave her to me, but I can't care for her. You're a good boy, Argus. You take her. Please."

The please did it.

"Well, thank you, then," he said, embarrassed. "It's a lovely gift."

She died a week later, but the kitten she had gifted him remained. And in every generation, one kitten stayed with Argus as a reminder that the most faithful companions can come from unexpected quarters.


	4. Portrait

All was quiet.

This was unusual these days. If the portrait of his mother wasn't screaming bloody murder downstairs, the rest of the Order were here making the sting of his enforced solitude worse.

Sirius prowled the hallways, alone. In one hand he held a bottle of Firewhisky from which he took the occasional swig. From the way he was staggering and occasionally walking into a wall, it was clear that he taken many swigs already. Probably too many swigs.

Not that he cared.

"That stuff will kill you, eventually," came a mild voice.

"Something's got to kill me, so it might as well be something pleasurable." Sirius scowled and turned to face the wall. "Did you mistake me for someone who cares?"

"I used to drink Firewhisky," said the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, almost wistfully. "Gave me terrible gas as I recall."

Sirius tipped his head on one side and studied his ancestor closely. Phineas had been absent for the past day or two, undoubtedly enjoying himself at another haunt – maybe even Dumbledore's office.

Dumbledore's office.

Jealousy flared.

"Must be nice to flit between portraits like you do, to have that ability to oversee things even when you're dead."

"There's nothing to be jealous of, Sirius," came the reply. "You're still alive."

"Maybe I don't want to be anymore. Maybe it'd be easier to be like you."

"Be careful what you wish for, Sirius. Often times it can come true."

"Nah, I'm going to live forever," said Sirius, raising the bottle of Firewhisky in toast to Phineas. "Just to annoy people."

Phineas gave him a sad smile. "Do you know, if anybody could achieve that, Sirius Black, it'd be you."

And he was gone again, leaving Sirius alone with nothing but dark thoughts and Firewhisky for company.


	5. Penalty

It had been a typically busy morning at the Ministry.

Firstly, he had tidied up a pile of papers. Then he had moved the pile of papers around on the desk. Then he had moved the pile of papers back and straightened it neatly.

There had been a tea break. Then the straightening had resumed.

 _This_ was living. Organisation. Tidiness. Everything that was seriously lacking at the Burrow.

Percy let out a contended sigh and held his set square up against the pile of paper. Perfect ninety degrees. He gazed upon the pile fondly for a while and congratulated himself on a Job Well Done.

"Morning, Worseley," said one of his colleagues, returning to the office after a meeting. Percy felt a little miffed. Nobody ever got his name right, and nobody ever called him Percy any more. Mind you, nobody ever called him 'Git', 'Fat Head' or 'Muppet' any more, either.

Small mercies.

He opened his drawer and rummaged around, coming out with a framed copy of the photograph of the Weasleys in Egypt. He looked at it for a few moments. It was as much as he saw of his family these days. He occasionally regretted it, but that was the penalty he had paid for choosing what he had learned too late was the wrong team.

The story of his life.

Maybe the time had come for a change.

He ran a finger across the photograph and watched the images of Fred and George mouthing 'Pillock' at his own likeness and felt a warm glow. He carefully tucked the photograph away again and surveyed his neat pile of paper.

Then, greatly daring, he twitched the top sheet until it was at an angle to the rest of the pile.

 _The rebellion_ , he thought, _starts here_.


	6. Diagon Alley

"You're a Curse Breaker, Bill, you've faced more terrifying things than this." Ginny folded her arms across her chest and glared at her big brother with the sort of smouldering fury that could start fires if she got too close to anything even remotely flammable.

"Don't kid yourself, Ginny," said Bill, adopting a nearly identical stance and glowering down at his kid sister. "Chasing mummies through the pyramids of Giza and fighting that ghoul in the Canyon of Despair were _nothing_ compared to this. I'm not going to do it. There's nothing on earth that you can say or do or even bribe me with that's going to make me change my mind."

The ruse worked; Ginny was intrigued and the conversation veered away to her asking him a thousand and one questions about the Canyon of Despair and the hitherto unheard of ghoul chasing. With an overly dramatic sigh, Bill had regaled her with a highly embellished version of events. Ginny didn't need to know that the 'lengthy hunt and battle' had actually consisted of a few short lines of dialogue between him and the ghoul, as follows.

_Bill: "Hi. Uh, the locals really don't like you being around much."_

_Ghoul: "Really?"_

_Bill: "Yeah. So, would you mind going…somewhere else?"_

_Ghoul: "No problem."_

No. It'd be dangerous to tell her the truth, so he gave her the more exciting version. It did the trick. She completely and utterly forgot her question. And he didn't have to explain again why it was that a heroic Curse Breaker simply refused to accompany anybody to Diagon Alley on the first day of the Christmas sales.


End file.
